Against Optics

August 23, 1732


From out north by north a seeming fury drowned

A flurry-hammered pirled by the grey-lit year

Oh it was a bout of flake tumbled just outside

My hutch where I scour cold ready to admit

I steamed with my cap along the wilted wall

At first an anxious hand and then a sod and then

A final misting sound that wrought no arriving spell

But sere-hammered tin leaves skirting hem-edged

No drier thing than that dry deepened wheel